Defilers

by Brian Lumley

  Jake Cutter played a major part in what measure of success E-Branch enjoyed; but aware of his compromised position—and alone in this knowledge, unable or unwilling to tell Trask and his espers about his “problem”—he can find little or no satisfaction in his newfound status within the organization.

  All Jake wanted was to be rid of a strange, unwelcome tenant: the ex-Necroscope, Harry, who had seemed intent on taking up partial (and perhaps even permanent?) residence in his head. But now that Harry has gone, a very different and far more devious intruder has taken his place. Now, too, Jake finds himself plagued by Harry’s warning: “Alive or dead makes no great difference. Never let a vampire into your mind!”

  As for Ben Trask: many of his concerns have been assuaged, but still there are questions that remain unanswered. Foremost among them: why Jake? Why has this problematic young man been chosen, apparently against his will, for work as important as this? Jake Cutter—spoiled as a child, unruly as a youth, and reckless as a man. Why him?

  And not only the Head of E-Branch, but the ex-Necroscope, too (in his immundane, incorporeal fashion), has wondered why. For those myriad attendant golden darts, revenant of his once-being, are apart from Harry and given to act of their own accord. He is the advance guard and scout, but they are the soldiers, the army. Thus it was with Jake: the ex-Necroscope found his life-thread, and so found him, but the dart struck home of its own cognizance. Why? Why was Jake chosen?

  Perhaps Harry should look to his own past for an answer, but in certain cases the past may be just as devious as the future. Even in a mind freed of bodily restraints there are bound to be blank spots, times and places that remain forever unremembered. And in the Necroscope’s life entire years were lost like pages torn from a book.

  Perhaps the answer lies there …

  PART ONE

  IMAGES

  1

  IMAGES OF THE PAST

  Ben Trask and his people were home again, but there was little enough time for rest and recuperation. The world might well be described as a small planet, but it was still a big place; its evils were many, and England had always had its fair share.

  Compared with what Trask and his principal espers—David Chung the locator, and Ian Goodly the precog—had encountered in Australia, the routine of E-Branch HQ seemed drab and almost boring. Almost. But here in the heart of London, in Trask’s own even smaller world of gadgets and ghosts, he knew that he could never really get bored. For even when the ghosts were quiet, the gadgets would keep right on going, and vice versa, though often as not they were active at the same time.

  Right now the gadgets—in the shape of the HQ’s telephones, its groundbased and satellite communication systems, its computers, TVs, and video screens—were in ascendance, catching up on time lost when Trask, a handful of his espers and technicians, plus a couple of new people, had been out of touch by virtue of their work on the other side of the world. But the Head of E-Branch knew that the ghosts would come into their own soon enough. He knew it because he commanded them. Ghosts of a sort, anyway.

  And for eight days now he had been steadily working his way through all the paperwork, sorting the priority jobs, detailing his workforce to whichever tasks best suited their various talents, and generally breaking up the logjam. It had to be done, because Trask knew that sooner or later he’d be on his way once again—that he, personally, would be on his way, for this was a personal thing now—out into a world threatened by the greatest of all possible evils.

  An evil born in another world, with a name that was similarly alien and undisguisably evil … Wamphyri!

  Despite that there was other work to be done, this was the name, and the thought, that was uppermost in Trask’s mind where he sat at his desk, in his office at the end of the main corridor in E-Branch HQ, pen in hand but stilled for the moment, not scratching away at one or another of a hundred different documents and forms. Stilled, brought to an abrupt halt by this sudden thought—or perhaps not so sudden, because for some three years now it had never been far from his mind—that in a world where Zek was no more, in this monstrously, unbelievably depleted world, the Wamphyri were. They were here, and because of them, she was not.

  And he was surprised to hear the rumble in his throat that was a growl trying to escape, surprised to see his hand turning white where it now gripped the pen like a dagger. The Wamphyri: Malinari, and Szwart, and Vavara, alive or undead in his world, the world where they had murdered Zek! And still her last words—her last thoughts, which she had sent winging to him—sighing in his memory, from which he could never hope to erase them and would never want to, but guessed he’d be the better man for it if he could:

  Goodbye, Ben. I love you …

  Then the blinding flash of white light that had woken him up that time three years ago—which he had hoped was only the glare of his bedside lamp, perhaps blinking into life where his arm had hit the cord as he threshed in his nightmare. Trask had hoped so, yes, but deep inside he’d known it wasn’t so. For the truth and Ben Trask were soul mates. The truth was his talent, and sometimes his curse. Times such as that time.

  That blinding flash of white light …

  … Which wasn’t white at all but green, and which wasn’t blinding but merely blinking. One of the tiny lights on Trask’s desk console, drawing him back to Earth, to the present, to the now. He unfroze, tripped a switch, spoke to the duty officer:

  “What is it?” His voice was a harsh rasp.

  “Sorry to interrupt you, boss,” the answer came back; Paul Garvey’s voice, even softer than usual. Garvey was a full-blown telepath, and despite Branch protocol—a mainly unspoken policy that espers would never use their talents on each other—still it was possible he’d inadvertently detected something of Trask’s mood of introspection. “This one’s for you. It′s Premier Gustav Turchin, calling from—”

  “Calcutta?” said Trask, cutting the other short. And casting a glance at the small occasional table where he’d deposited the morning newspapers, he frowned.

  “Right,” said Garvey. “He’s calling from—”

  “The German embassy,” Trask nodded, understanding dawning. “The sly old bastard!”

  After a pause, mystified, Garvey said, “Well, you seem to be way ahead of me! Anyway, it sounds urgent.”

  “Earth Year,” Trask said, nodding to himself.

  El Niño had let India off light this time around, but the world’s rapidly changing weather patterns were only one of the Earth’s problems. Pollution was another, and a big one; Turchin would be in Calcutta to lie his head off at the Earth Year Conference there, answering Russia’s accusers in that respect. Not that he would want to, for just like Trask he knew the truth of it: that indeed the destitute Russian military was muddying the world’s waters. But at least the conference—one of many Earth Year conferences—would free him from several far more weighty problems back home. It would also make him the spokesman of his people, helping with his image to boot.

  In Brisbane Trask had worked out a deal with the premier: his help with Turchin’s problems in return for certain important information; this could be it coming through right now. As for where it was coming from:

  The morning newspapers carried the story. Last night Turchin had been insulted by Hans Bruchmeister, one of the German delegates. There and then he’d threatened to abandon the conference, fly home, and leave the rest of them to get on with it. But since Russia (along with the USA) was alleged to be one of the worst offenders, what would the conference amount to without a Russian representative? The other delegates had tried to cool things down, but Turchin had insisted:

  “When I have received Herr Bruchmeister’s apology—when I’ve stood face-to-face with him in the German Embassy here in Calcutta, bearding the lion in his own den, as it were—then and only then will I be encouraged to stay. For after all, I’m the Russian premier. And I must consider my reputation and the honour of my people …”

  Of course, Herr Bruchmeister had
been persuaded to apologise, with the result that Gustav Turchin was now in the German Embassy building in Calcutta. But:

  Oh sure! thought Trask, reading between the lines, understanding the real meaning of the report. Bearding the lion in his den, bollocks! Turcbin engineered the whole thing in order to get a few minutes on a secure line and speak to me!

  Paul Garvey was waiting patiently, and Trask said, “Patch him through to my office, will you?”

  “Just pick up your telephone,” Garvey answered. “I’ve put him on scrambled, so there may be some static.”

  The intercom quit blinking, and one of Trask’s telephones took over the job. He picked it up and said, “Trask?”

  And an edgy voice on the other end said, “Ben? You appear to be busy. I told your man this was urgent.”

  “It’s only been a minute,” Trask answered.

  “It felt like an hour!” the other grunted, and continued: “Look, I’m in the German embassy, and this is supposed to be a secure line—”

  “And scrambled at my end,” Trask told him.

  “—But it’s still risky. I like to keep my conversations as private as possible. So I’ll be brief and probably a little cryptic.”

  “Wait!” said Trask, and tripped his intercom switch to the Duty Officer. “Paul, is John Grieve in? Good. Find him and tell him he’s needed in my office right now.” Then back to Turchin:

  “Okay, go ahead, and I’ll try to follow you.”

  “You … and your Mr. Grieve?” said the other.

  “That’s right,” Trask answered. “You could say he’s my interpreter.” And to himself: When the gadgets can’t get it done, then it’s time for the ghosts!

  “Your E-Branch always did have the pick of the crop,” Turchin said knowingly, a touch of jealousy coming through.

  And Trask told him, “Yes, but all natural-grown. It’s well known that when you force a crop, the produce is usually inferior.”

  “We’re blunt today,” said the other, as a knock sounded on Trask’s door.

  “Blunt and highly pissed off!” Trask told him. And then to the door: “Come in.”

  “Ah!” said Turchin. “Mr. Grieve. And now we can get on. But tell me: what’s pissing you off, Ben?”

  “Admin,” Trask told him. “Frustration. All the duties that won’t let me get to my real duty. Too many small things getting in the way of the big things.” And then he sighed. “I’m sorry I was rude. But still, this isn’t a good day to try, er, bearding me in my den, I assure you!”

  “And I am sorry I was so impatient,” said Turchin. “Nerves are showing on both sides, it seems. As for bearding you,”—his voice lightened up a little—“you’ve obviously read this morning’s papers. The Times, perhaps?”

  Trask switched the phone to his desk speaker and said, “Yes. Your little tiff at the conference? You’re getting good at that sort of subterfuge. But very well, now you can be as cryptic as you like.” John Grieve had come in and was standing by the desk with a notepad.

  Grieve was in his mid- to late fifties and had been with E-Branch for half that time at least. Despite being extraordinarily talented, he had never been a field operative; Trask and previous Heads of Branch had found him too useful in the HQ, as duty officer or on standby, to send him into the far more dangerous world outside. In any case, he wasn’t a particularly physical sort of person.

  A little pudgy now, a lifetime smoker and short of breath, he was balding, grey, and prematurely aged. But he was also upright, smart as his physical condition would permit, polite and very British. With his head held high and stomach pulled in to the best of his ability, he might be an ex-Army officer or maybe a failed businessman—to the man in the street, anyway. But in fact he had always been E-Branch, and Trask relied upon him. Sometimes heavily.

  In earlier times Grieve had two extrasensory talents, one of which had been “dodgy” (Branch parlance for an as yet undeveloped ESP ability) and the other quite remarkable and possibly unique. The first had been the gift of far-seeing (remote viewing), which had eventually ceased to work for him; his “crystal ball” had finally clouded over. But in any case this lost ability had probably been a facet of his greater talent, which was a different slant on telepathy. And with the loss of his “scrying,” so his telepathic skill had increased proportionately.

  The trouble with his far-seeing had been that he needed to know exactly where and what he was looking for—otherwise he could “see” nothing. His talent hadn’t worked at random but required direction; it had to be “aimed” at a definite target.

  And Grieve’s special brand of telepathy—which at times like this was invaluable—was somewhat similar. For yet again he must aim his talent: he could read a person’s mind only when they were face-to-face, when he was talking or listening to the target … even on the telephone! And so, like Trask, there was no way anyone could lie to John Grieve, not directly, and on occasions like this his skill made every kind of mechanical scrambler redundant. That in the main was why he could usually be found on duty at the HQ. For his was one ghost that worked hand in hand with many of the gadgets …

  Trask had indicated to Grieve that he should stand beside him; he did so, and placed his notepad on the desk where Trask could see it. Then the Head of Branch spoke again to the Russian premier. “So what’s up, Gustav?”

  And Turchin answered, “Not long ago we talked about—oh, this and that, a few small problems, some of them mutual—but nothing hugely important. Perhaps you remember?”

  “Indeed I do,” said Trask, and Grieve quickly scribbled on his pad: Big stuff!

  “You asked if I could locate someone for you,” the Russian premier continued. “An old friend, who flits about the Mediterranean quite a bit?”

  Luigi Castellano? And: “Ah, yes!” said Trask. “Old what’s-his-name! Can’t seem to find hide nor hair of him. But then, he always did keep a low profile.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” Turchin appeared contradictory. “Marseilles, Genoa, Palermo … He keeps in touch with the old gang. And he also has a good many new friends in my neck of the woods, too, or so I’m told.”

  Grieve wrote:

  Mob. Mafia. Russian Mafia.

  “But I knew that much already!” said Trask. “What I really need to know is his whereabouts at any specific time, so that I can … well, contact him, you know? I mean, I owe him, and you know how I hate being in anyone’s debt.”

  “One of your finer points, yes.” Turchin chuckled. “But as I was about to say, I’ve been looking for him myself—and for pretty much the same reasons—all of the good things he’s done for us, and never asks a rouble in return. Not that I have much to offer him anyway. But now that you’ve opened my eyes to him, well, I really do think we should be more appreciative.”

  Grieve scribbled furiously. Turchin wants him, too. Drugs. L. C.’s making millions; he’s helping to ruin both Russia’s economy and the world’s health! Turchin hadn’t realized bow bad the drugs trafficking situation was. Now that he has, he wants L. C. taken out.

  “Well, what do you suggest?” Trask said. “Are you going to take care of it? Will you make some sort of presentation … or should I see to it? If it’s me, please remember that I’m still in the dark as to his whereabouts—the old gadfly!”

  “Well, it’s like this,” said Turchin. “I’ve had one of our local people back home come and see me, someone who owes me for a change. In a week or so he’ll introduce and recommend an intermediary to our mutual friend—perhaps as a new club member? Then we sit back and wait for a report—place, date, and time. I think that should do it.”

  “Hmmm,” Trask mulled it over, giving John Grieve time to scrawl: He’s coerced someone in the Russian mob to introduce an undercover agent to Castellano. When his man has learned L. C.’s routines, he’ll get back to us with a venue.

  And Turchin continued, “But I’m afraid the presentation is going to have to be of your own devising, and preferably on our friend’s home
ground. The greater shame is that what with these Earth Year conferences and what have you, I won’t be available. I can’t be involved personally, if you see what I mean …”

  Whatever you decide to do with Castellano, it will have to be on L. C.’s or our territory. Turchin doesn’t want any part of it.

  “Yes, I understand,” said Trask. “You want to keep it politically correct.”

  “Well, I do have a certain position to maintain …”

  He’s much higher profile than we are and would make a bigger target.

  “And of course,” Trask said, “you don’t want to commit too many of your own resources.” (Meaning the Opposition—Russia’s own equivalent of E-Branch—of which Turchin was now the head man.)

  “Simply can’t,” said the other. “There’s so much going on. I mean on a higher plane, you know?”

  Up in the Urals. Perchorsk.

  And Trask thought, He’s committed his espers to getting me those details on the Perchorsk Complex and Gate. While out loud he said:

  “Ah, well, it can’t be helped. But still, we’ve got things moving at least. I’m glad that’s all sorted now.”

  “Oh, but we’ve a long way to go yet, Ben. I’ll be in touch as soon as I’ve filled in some blank spots. But if I seem a bit vague I’m sure you’ll understand.”

  He’ll fax you some stuff. In Code. But nothing you’ll have too much trouble with.

  “Good!” said Trask. And tried to finish it off with: “Talk to you later …”

  But the other wasn’t ready to let him go. “Wait!” he said, and that edge—an edge of fear?—was back in his voice. “We had also talked about a little personal problem of mine? Well, time is pressing—I expect that very soon people will be looking for answers—and you mentioned some sort of solution that you might eventually have to hand? How are things going on that front?”